


the wary traveller, abiding momentarily

by bubblewrapstargirl



Series: the lone traveller multiverse [26]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Future Fic, Gen, Grand Northern Conspiracy 2.0, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Politics, Robb & Theon have a political bromance, Robb Stark is King in the North, Robb Stark is a Good Bro, Theon Greyjoy is King of the Iron Islands, United North
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 21:31:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14941754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl
Summary: Tyrion receives an unwelcome visit from the most powerful young men in Westeros, and his family sacrifices even more to their schemes.





	the wary traveller, abiding momentarily

Tyrion drummed his fingers on the highly polished mahogany table. The sweltering heat of summer in the heart of the Westerlands was making his neck itch from the sweat collecting in his collar. But he resisted the urge to scratch at it, loath to make any movement that might betray his discomfort. Like his Father before him, he sat before the desk in the gigantic solar of the Lord of Casterly Rock, and attempted to feel an ounce of Tywin Lannister’s formidability. 

His cause of intimidation might have been better served, had he met these men in the great hall rather than his personal tower. But in honesty, Tyrion couldn’t stand the echoing hall when it was devoid of people. And this meeting needed to be discreet, if he were to retain any respect from his bannermen at all. He had already been forced to bow and scrape before the Young Wolf, the boy that was now technically his liege lord, seeing as Casterly Rock now belonged to the Kingdom of the North. 

The Lannisters’ ancestral home was currently playing host to not one, but two Kings. Theon Greyjoy and Robb Stark had each brought an impressive household on their ‘visit’, and yet suspiciously few women. Neither of their wives nor any of their children had joined them, much to the desperate disappointment of Tyrion’s son and heir, Jaime. As yet, the boy was his only child, and terribly lonely. But Tyrion was under no illusions that his wife wished him to come to her chambers again, now that she had done her duty and provided him with a son. Jaime would have to make do with the lowborn children of the household for playmates.

The intrusive arrival of royalty in Casterly Rock was clearly a thinly veiled scouting mission, to ensure that no rebellion was being plotted. Tyrion almost snorted at the thought of it. A chance would be a fine thing. Tyrion was permitted to write to Tommen, Mrycella and Jaime, but though his Maester was supposed to be loyal to the castle, he was not the man who had taught Tyrion his letters. The new Maester was Robb Stark’s man, and no mistake. Tyrion was not foolish enough to believe his letters were not read and analysed for coded messages. His household was filled with former North, Stormland and Reach peasants who had taken wives and decided to remain. No doubt the Young Wolf had him ringed with spies.

Now the three men had left behind their attendants and sat in private, they dropped the pretence of friendship. Though Tyrion respected Sansa Greyjoy, and had always enjoyed her company in Winterfell, Robb Stark was an arrogant prick, who had made Myrcella cry and flaunted his bastards with no regard for Rosamund’s feelings. Theon Greyjoy might be loyal to his wife, but he was Ironborn: just as savage as the rest of his tribe. Father would have been furious at the suggestion that a Lannister must prostrate himself before a pirate king and his Northern barbarian brother. 

But Father was dead, Cersei was dead, Kevan, Lancel, Genna and the rest. Tyrion would likely never see Jaime or Myrcella again, though he hoped in time to work on the Citadel, and have Tommen sent to serve a House in the West. 

“Now, your graces, may we be frank with one another?” Tyrion smiled, as charmingly as he could manage.

“I think that would be best, aye,” Robb Stark agreed, his words typically gruff and without honey, like all Northmen.

Theon Greyjoy only nodded.

“As you can see, Casterly’s accounts tally as they should. We have not been building excessively nor hoarding anything. Whatever prompted this trip, I fear your informants are not very reliable, if they gave you cause for alarm,” Tyrion smiled, all teeth.

Theon Greyjoy sat up a little higher, his eyes narrowed dangerously. The boy was not at all fond of him, and never had been, though Tyrion had never crossed him via personal insult. Then again, rumour and prejudice could easily paint an entirely innocent man to be an enemy.

“We are not here to accuse you of anything, Lord Tyrion,” Robb Stark said calmly. 

The young man had the stoicism of a man three times his age. Tyrion silently seethed with envy at the boy’s apparent effortless serenity. But then, the Young Wolf had an ally with him, and no doubt some scheme fixed between the two of them. They seemed to communicate with only looks and twitches of a lip or brow. Tyrion was at a distinct disadvantage, and not just because his armies paled in comparison to the military might of each of the two Kingdoms, before they were even combined. Allies made in times of war can be driven apart. But bonds formed in infancy, through fostering, that was a brotherhood not easily rendered. Men shuddered and were slaughtered in their thousands before the Stark-Baratheon alliance. The Greyjoy-Stark alliance was worse, if only because it brought his own House to the brink of ruin and extinction.

“The time has come for us to look to the future.” King Theon said evenly, “To ensure peace for all our people.”

“An admirable sentiment, your grace,” Tyrion acknowledged, “More difficult to place into reality than to speak of.”

“And yet we must. So we shall,” Robb Stark declared firmly. 

The familiar glint of arrogant youth shone in his eyes, and Tyrion loathed him passionately for a long moment. Perhaps because unlike himself, Robb Stark had achieved his wildly ambitious goals, all before he was twenty. If tales of the North rang true, the boy had had to set himself many more lofty ideals of trade, and the restoration and building of new castles and roads. Tyrion swallowed down bitter envy, chiding himself for being petty. He might not go down in history as the first King of his people in hundreds of years, but Tyrion Lannister would always be remembered as a Lord of Casterly Rock, and the greatest dwarf that ever lived. That was something. He hoped Cersei was screaming in rage, somewhere deep in the Seven Hells.

“As all great men know, it is necessary to maintain ties and bonds with neighbouring bannermen and kingdoms through trade, marriages and fostering,” Robb began, and Tyrion’s heart began to sink, blackening and leaking blood. 

Robb and his fucking namesake, Robert Baratheon, had already forced Tyrion into marriage with poor, unwilling Jeyne. A girl young enough to be his daughter, and miserable to marry a man such as him, and not some nice, strapping knight. They would not allow Tyrion to claim his birthright without wedding her, because Jeyne was from a low, relatively poor House, and all of her family had died in the war. Leaving her without friends, and more importantly, no valuable allies or dowry. She was a loyal Lannister bannerman’s daughter, and a maiden. There was no disgrace in marrying her, and Tyrion could find no legal reason to refuse. Thus he was forever barred from seeking rich allies from across the narrow sea or in the Reach, to solidify any real power. He was a figurehead, Lord of Little and Warden of Nothing.

“You wish to betroth my son to one of your bannermen's daughter? Or your own?” Tyrion guessed.

To a girl taught from a young age to value her Father’s House above her husband’s: taught to smile and simper and sing sweet lies while sending little notes about anything of worth to her kin. No, Tyrion would not have it. The insults could not continue in this manner. He opened his mouth to deny their request, but Theon Greyjoy beat him to it.

“Not as yet, my lord. The boy is very young.” he said, his lips twitching into a wry smile, “Too young for Robb’s Cerena I think. And Sansa would skin me, if I betrothed Robbyn to a child she had never met.”

The two young men shared a fond smile at that, and Tyrion relaxed marginally at the sight of it. At heart, these two were still brothers out on an adventure. Wistfully, he thought of Jaime, and when he had finally been able to join him in King’s Landing as a boy, just as their sister was to become a Queen. They were so happy then, though Tyrion did not see it at the time. He had been so very lonely: rejected by Cersei and Father. Uncle Gerion had gone and disappeared, leaving him without friends.

The world had been cold to Tyrion, and moving to court had been a bold splash of colour into his drab days. Life had been so full of promise. Now here he was, alone in Casterly Rock again, with the ghosts of his cruel kin, and only echoes of the past to keep him company. How could he not envy these two boys, gone to war together to avenge the man who had raised them both, who had returned not only heroes, but Kings. Great commanders of men, who had not yet been corrupted by their power. Perhaps they never would be. They seemed to care more for their subjects than Robert or the Targaryens ever had.

Tyrion shifted in his austere, high-backed chair. Not much of the wealth of Casterly Rock had remained by the time he had gotten to it. The Ironborn and Northmen had stripped it of gold, silver tableware, jewels, elegant dresses, intricate tapestries and carpets, expensive oils and perfumes from Myr and Volantis, carvings, swords, armour, and food stores. Even the candlesticks were gone. The majesty of Casterly Rock, once the jewel of the West, was now only in the magnificent architecture of the structure itself. 

“I do desire a greater bridge between our neighbouring territories,” King Theon admitted. Tyrion knew by ‘our’, he meant his own Kingdom and Robb Stark’s. Tyrion’s opinion nor rights as a lord no longer counted or mattered to anyone.

“But it need not be a tie between our Houses.” The young Ironborn concluded.

No, he would not desire a Lannister husband for his girls. There were few who desired to be affiliated with the disgraced Lannisters. Robb Stark’s wedding to his hostage hadn’t made it fashionable to tie your House to a clan of incestuous murderers. They had been denounced by Drowned Men, Septons and Red Priestesses alike. The hypocrisy left a bitter pall in Tyrion’s mouth. Every House had its bad apples, stupid decisions and periods of reckless foolish behaviour. No man was proud of each and every ancestor of his line. Tyrion refused to be ashamed of his family any longer. 

Jaime was the first person who had ever been kind to him, the only one to love Tyrion truly, aside from Uncle Gerion, and perhaps now his own son. Fickle friends had been few and far between. Tyrion had hoped the lad, good Podrick Payne, would accompany him home. One familiar friendly face at least, in a sea of bedraggled former hostages or prisoners of war. But the war had been good to Podrick, and somehow he had been seduced by that senseless bastard of Lord Bolton’s. 

The boy still wrote to him occasionally, and by all accounts, Podrick seemed happy, living in the macabre Dreadfort. He enjoyed a position of influence and wealth there, if he spoke true. And Pod was too honourable to lie. The boy was an avenue into the North for Tyrion, but too close with their new overlords to be of real use. Podrick was  _ too _ loyal. He would not refrain from giving voice to his suspicions, if Tyrion ever gave him cause for alarm.

Still, Tyrion could not deny he was relieved to be given a reprieve for his Jaime. Betrothals should be a private affair between the relevant families, and perhaps a close friend or lord protector. There was no outside influence that would not feel like tyranny regarding this issue.

“The Crag has been empty these years,” King Theon guided the conversation, surprising Tyrion with the abrupt change of topic.

Suspiciously, Tyrion nodded.

“That is not to continue,” King Theon declared, “A castle left with only a castellan is wasted revenue. It shall be occupied once again. I have decided to settle it upon Lady Morgan Banefort. Her grandmother was a Westerling. It will be her seat, until such time as she is wed and it passes to her husband.”

“Little Lady Banefort?” Tyrion repeated, with surprise that was not in any way feigned. “Lord Banefort has a son, does he not?”

“He does,” King Robb confirmed, “And though the Crag is a more grand keep, I have no doubt young Lord Banefort would prefer to inherit the familiar lands of his father.”

“My wife is the Lady of the Crag,” Tyrion countered, “It should be inherited by one of our children.”

“You have one son, and are not like to have another,” Robb Stark said flatly, merciless.

Tyrion flushed, and fought not twist his lips in churlish embarrassment. No whore had ever had any complaints after a night with him, but Robb Stark, with his broad shoulders, trim fighting form and thick head of curls, could succeed where Tyrion could not; charming highborn ladies into his bed. His legally wedded wife or otherwise. King Robb would never lack for heirs. Tyrion resisted the temptation to curl his hands into fists. But Theon Greyjoy was unable to keep the smirk from his lips, proud of the point his friend had scored: and in that moment Tyrion deeply hated them both.

“The Crag will go to Lady Morgan. Theon and I have settled a household upon her.” The Stark continued, “She will be joined by a Maester, and her uncle as Lord Protector until she comes of age and is wed to her betrothed.”

“I see,” Tyrion growled through gritted teeth, “And who is the future Lord of the Crag to be, your grace?”

But it was Theon Greyjoy who answered: “My second son, Jon,” he said placidly, unashamed by the revelation of this blatant scheme to swindle Tyrion's wife out of her birthright.

“Indeed?” Tyrion attempted to smile. “Then I suppose we shall receive young Lord and Lady Greyjoy, someday in the next few years.”

Robb Stark offered him the ghost of a smile.

They had little of worth to say to one another beyond that; the ruling powers had spoken, and now Tyrion would be forced to obey. The boys had made this trip in person, travelling down from the Ironborn occupied region of the Westerlands together, and no doubt they had secured the Crag, planting their loyal spies and servants nearby, even in areas that were more loyal to their new lords. The West had little choice; most of the men had been stripped of their wealth, executed or sent to the Wall. 

Tyrion was a rare exception, a highborn heir who retained most of his lands. Most Houses had been stripped back to women and children, and boys who were betrothed to the invaders. Or who forever lost the chance to claim their father’s keep, when their older sisters were forcibly wed to second sons, if not lowborn knaves who earned knighthoods and infamy in the war. Smallfolk didn't care to keep fighting; it didn't matter to most who ruled over them, so long as there was peace and food to grow and share. But how the Maiden’s ears must have bled from the desperate prayers of Westerwomen, those final months of war. Girls praying they would not be forced to marry their rapists, or other brutes far too base to know how to be gentle with them. Jeyne had wept for her friends as well as herself, as the stories had eventually flowed into their gates. 

Lady Morgan was only the latest casualty. A little girl too young to understand how she was being bartered like a prize cow, would never know the choices she might once have enjoyed as the eldest daughter of a lord. She would grow up beneath her betrothed’s thumb, and just as his sister had suffered from her gilded cage, so would this unknown girl. Tyrion could rarely bring himself to feel a teaspoon of sympathy for Cersei, who brought her pains upon herself. But Tyrion felt for the Banefort girl: he too was pressed into an unwanted marriage by invading Kings. He could only pity her, and hope that perhaps she might be a wiley one, the kind of girl that knew how to rule her husband without him suspecting it to be the case. Then she might have a chance at some form of happiness, in the end.

_ And so the wheel continues to turn, _ thought Tyrion,  _ raising a young girl to the Lady of a great keep, before the spoke of marriage crushes her freedom once more. _  
  



End file.
